


white solace

by blooshboy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M, Manipulative Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 14:35:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8756395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooshboy/pseuds/blooshboy
Summary: you're his.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译】White Solace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11224257) by [amberjune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberjune/pseuds/amberjune)



###

 

 

You're born wrong and wretched. Ma's stern face twists at the sight of you at seven years old and standing in front of the spoon that fell off the counter on its own. You at ten with a shattered glass at your feet after Ma told you for the hundredth time that you _must_ be dull to miss the handprints on it. You at fourteen with the older Shaw brother's knuckles imprinted in your cheek and a formal note from his father telling your Ma there's something off about you. You at nineteen with no scars no matter how hard she hits. She assures you she's going to beat the oddness right out of your skin and you believe her - it hurts so much, it must have a purpose. 

To escape, you create stories in your mind that would get you killed by Ma. In your mind, you're free and you're poetic and you're so devastatingly brave you can feel it in your bones. You almost end up looking into Ma's eyes sometimes because of that phantom feeling and it's a mistake, as much of what you do is. You've got fresh marks on your skin to prove you're a mistake but your mind is resilient and your thoughts are heavy and sticky and aren't afraid of belts as much as you are.

 

Mr. Graves is handsome so you cast him as a prince. He's the only good person in your stories and he loves you - mistakes and all. Almost foolishly. Mr. Graves has big, warm hands that make welts hurt less, that make your heart numb, that make Ma's disappointment seem distant. You meet at the bank when you're trying to deposit a few coins Ma stuffed in your hand along with quiet instructions. The teller keeps becoming more and more frustrated by your stutter, the way your voice is muffled because you can't seem to raise your chin off your chest, the way your hands shake and drop a few coins. 

Then, like a story, Mr. Graves is suddenly warm and pressed right up against your side as if he has no idea he's touching a mistake. He smells sweet and he speaks softly to the teller, clearing up the tension and facilitating the deposit easily. As soon as the task is done, Mr. Graves turns to you with a bright smile that has your eyes widening and immediately dropping. 

You blindly accept the teller's receipt note and start hastening out of the bank, nearly tripping down marble stairs on your way out. Your heart is at your throat and it nearly drops to your stomach when a hand catches your elbow and yanks you into an alley. You're pressed against warm bricks and have your eyes squeezed close. You're used to this. You're a freak. You're an outcast. You're used to being roughed up by neighborhood boys who call you dirty names and whisper dirtier things. But, then a familiar sweet scent floods you and you opens your eyes.

Mr. Graves is looking at you like you're a broken bird and he's fascinated by the how wings look when they're not set right. It should bother you, but it's the most attention anyone's paid you for a long, long time and you get that stupid brave feeling in your bones again - just long enough to drink in Mr. Graves' handsome features before you're lowering your eyes. 

"Are you alright, boy?"

"Yes, sir, I- I'm sorry," you whisper, the words rushing out painfully.

"What on earth are you sorry for?"

_How much time do you have?_

 

Ma doesn't like music or much of anything else, and she especially don't like you humming so you keep your jaw locked shut, teeth grinding painfully to keep the urge in. There's a cake shop near the newspaper stand and on your errand runs, you risk a few minutes to hang around because the owner always has the door popped open and the music drifts out. They have a record player that has a set schedule and your favorite is a sad song you don't know the name of. You have the lyrics memorized though and you hum them on your errands and painfully shove them to the back of your mind as soon as you're back home. 

Mr. Graves thinks you have a nice voice. ( _Oh, I wish I had someone to love me. Someone to call me their own._ )

"You could be so special, my boy," Mr. Graves says, knocking his knee gently against your tightly curled up one. You're sitting in front of a door in an alley - Mr. Grave's legs spread out easily over a few steps while you're trying to take up as little space as possible, hands clasped together and pressed between your bent legs and your chest. 

After a few moments of silence, Mr. Graves gracefully stands up and turns to you, forcing your chin off your chest. 

"Watch this," he says, holding his palm out. You're already transfixed as you are with any movement Mr. Graves makes, but then there's a glow and a flicker and suddenly a lone flame is hovering atop Mr. Graves' palm. "This is you, Credence. A flame that could light up the whole world."

( _Now if I had wings like an angel, over these prison walls I would fly._ )

He closes his fist abruptly and you wonder if maybe that's a metaphor too - but before you can think too much about it, Mr. Graves is cupping your cheek and leaning close and you can't breathe. He never kisses you, but Mr. Graves has soft hands and they make you feel like someone a prince might fall in love with.

( _And, I'd fly to the arms of my poor darling. And, there I'd be willing to die._ )

 

Find the child. Find the child. Find the child. It rings in your head and no matter how hard you press on your ears, it doesn't stop feeling like someone's screaming the words right into them. You feel as though your lifeline is attached to this child, as though Mr. Graves' affections depend on this child. If you can't find the child, you'll be nobody and nothing all at once. You won't be able to do magic like Mr. Graves, you won't be able to leave Ma's house, you won't _mean_ anything.

All you've ever wanted is to mean something - to someone. 

There's a sharp noise behind you and you startle, nearly dropping your packet of leaflets that warn of the horrors of witches in bold, black letters. Mr. Graves appears out of thin air, walking fluidly and grabbing you by the wrists and yanking you close against his chest, tucking his head into your neck. He has to bend down to hold you like this, but he seems to be doing it just as he does anything else - easily and with grace. Desiring is a sin, but it's wrecking your body as you stands there frozen, arms stiff by your sides. 

"My boy," Mr. Graves breathes out, warm and ticklish against your neck, "It's been ages since I've seen you."

It's only been a week, you think, but you don't dare say anything. As soon as Mr. Graves steps away, you curl back into yourself. Mr. Graves traces your jaw with his thumb, gentle and sweet, and asks, "Won't you show me your eyes?"

Heart at your throat, you dare to look up at the prince - it will earn you lashes after lashes, you're sure - and are startled for the second time at the sheer emotion in Mr. Graves' eyes. His handsome features are drawn tight in an odd balance between desire and curiosity. Like he wants to eat you up only to spit you out and contemplate the experience. Disposable but unattainable. 

"Oh, Credence," he breathes out, pulling you in by the wrist and turning your free hand over. There are welts on the palm of it that you'd honestly forgotten about the moment you saw him, but now suddenly sting like they're fresh and deep. He eases the pain and before you can even mention the welts your leaflets are digging into, he's plucking the packet out of your other hand and cleaning those cuts too.

You think if he keeps fixing you like this, you'll try to break apart on purpose just to feel his hands on you. 

 

The necklace he gives you feels like it's burning a brand against your skin where you've tucked it under your shirt. You've meticulously lined it along your collar so not a hint of it can be seen, because your Ma will rip it off your neck. Call you wicked for the strange symbol, put you under a bath full of holy water like she did once when you were sixteen and the light bulb had exploded. You still wake up from nightmares with your hand around your throat and gasping like you'd been holding your breath in your sleep. 

You have the symbol memorized. You trace it sometimes when you're nervous. Making the triangle against the wool of your pants, nail digging into your thigh - making sure it's under the table so Ma can't see. And, you make the circle next - rounding it several times to make it perfect - and then the line down the middle. Over and over until you feel rooted and your Ma's words don't fall quite as roughly on you. You draw it on your bare skin after a bath, feeling especially sinful when it causes a ripple of goosebumps all over your body. You draw it faintly on your chest, on your belly, and sometimes on your lips - staring into your own wicked, wretched eyes as they water uselessly. 

On some nights - once or twice - you picture Mr. Graves caging you in and drawing the symbol himself on your wrist and then because you're sick, because you're so awful bad and _sick_ , you picture him kissing you at the center of the symbol. 

 

It's food supply day where you have to go pick up the bread and the vegetables from the market and then organize them accordingly in the kitchen. Ma has a specific amount she needs to keep everyone mostly fed and she has a specific set of buyers she can get them from for cheap and without the ridicule her witch hunt rhetoric gets her. You're the oldest so it's your job to make the run and you don't mind it when it saves you from having to hand out leaflets - having to cower under the strange looks you get or the occasional passerby who'll snatch a leaflet out only to laugh and crumble it up. 

So, your heart is unusually light as you make your way to the market, daring to hum some of that song. 

( _I'll be carried to a new jail tomorrow. Leaving my poor darling all alone._ )

You manage to get all your supplies quick and have time to linger by the music shop for a little moment before you know you have to head home. Your stomach is a pit of dread as you near home and it tightens sharply when you spot Harry Shaw coming down the street with a few of his friends with him. You duck your head and try to walk along the edges, tucking your food packages to your chest. Suddenly, you're shoved by the shoulder and you brace for impact thinking you'll hit the brick wall of some shop, but instead you go tumbling into an alley. The packages fall out of your loosening grasp as you try to stay upright and your heart sinks at the sight of them getting dirty - you've earned yourself five clean belt marks on your back.

As Harry Shaw steps into the alley with his friends, you think you'd do anything to be home. When you were a kid and he was taller, older, smarter, Harry always picked on you. Commenting on you when no one else did, calling you names, almost fixating on you. He'd eased off as he'd grown older and become a more public figure, but you think the power comes with certain perks. Because nobody cares if Senator Harry Shaw Jr. is cornering the local freak in an alley as long as he's squeaky clean when he's up on a podium. 

"Where are you off to, boy?" Harry asks, devilish smirk and serpent charm. 

"I don't want any trouble, Mr. Shaw," you say with a tremor in your voice that widens Harry's smirk. 

"Nor do I, darling," Harry says, face drawn into fake concern, "But, the boys were just talking about how this Salem nonsense has gotten quite out of hand as of late. And, then we see you - peculiar little boy from that peculiar home. What's a Senator to do?"

"Please," you say, the word leaving you like a sigh.

There's a locked gate at the end of the alley and you don't realize you'd been inching away from Harry until your back hits the iron bars of it. Now, you're properly caged in and Harry reaches out to rub the lapel of your jacket between his finger and thumb, following the line of it to your stomach and then back up. It's an absolute perfect time for a prince to show up, but that's a story and that's only in your mind.

"Look at you," he says, "All proper. No one would guess you spend all your time handing out silly little fliers and causing terror in my city."

Harry's friends are flanking him and look eager to hurt you, but Harry dismisses them without taking his eyes off of you. Once it's just you and him, Harry moves his hand from your lapel to your neck. His thumb rests heavily at the base of your throat, your pulse erratic under it. You're certain he must feel your panic because there's delight in his eyes and a smile on his lips. 

"What should I do with you, Credence? What can I possibly do to get the message across to your little foundation?"

Feeling nearly dizzy with fear, you start lying. 

"I'll tell Ma to call off the meetings. I'll tell her to stop picketing your re-election rallies. Please, Mr. Shaw, I-"

"Quiet," he says softly. His thumb swipes up your throat and then traces along your jaw, stopping at your chin. It hovers strangely there, brushing faintly against your bottom lip. His blue eyes seem pitch black under the shadow of the alley and there's a certain glint to it that makes you nervous in a new way. Before you can think too much about it, he knees you sharply in the stomach and snaps your head back against the gate almost at once. You crumble as he walks away.

( _With the cold prison bars all around me and my head on a pillow of stone_.)

 

Mr. Graves is impatient today as you give him more empty news and you feel an odd pressure in your chest, as if you'll explode at any second. Your head still hurts and your back is a crisscross of welts and Mr. Graves is perhaps starting to figure that you're useless. Born wrong and wretched. Can't do magic, can't find the child, can't do anything except whimper pathetically while he tries to give you a future. When you stay quiet long enough, his gaze sharpens and he does a quick scan of you - and no matter how hard you try to stand right and look fine, he can always figure you out.

 _Your mother again, my boy,_ he whispers. Beautiful eyes crackling with rage but his hands are steady when they curl around your shoulders and urge you to turn around. You wince when you touches your back but the pain fades away immediately. _Good as new_. You expect him to turn you back around, but he falls quiet and then he's suddenly yanking you around and looking at your belt, knuckles white as they work the buckle and yank it out of the loops. He fingers at the belt and then in one harsh breath, he's saying, _your blood is still on this_ , as if it's the most awful thing he's ever seen.

 _I'll break her hands_ , he's promising suddenly and firmly. Your chest hurts looking at him.

 _I'll wind this belt around her_ throat _, Credence_ \- he's shaking.

You kiss him.

 

In defiance, you turn wicked. You feel like those loose women your Ma wrinkles at her nose at when they pass _that_ part of town. You feel like something a man would put his hands on with care. Something a prince would only pretend to resist. The absolute pinnacle of decadence and debauchery. You feel like every sin in the bible when you get on your knees and fit yourself inside the bracket of Mr. Graves' thighs. You've never once felt like anything other than a freak your whole life, but when he calls you beautiful, you change. 

He says you were made for him. That in the future, he's seen you standing besides him. He tells you there's something special about you as he presses you into an obscure hotel's mattress, wrecking havoc on the insides of your thighs. Because, you were born wrong and wretched but maybe that's not so bad if he's there with you. If he's kissing you after every sin you commit and he thinks you look so pretty - _a daydream, darling, that face you make_ \- when you flush with shame and desire and a clawing need to be closer to him. 

There's a constant pressure in your chest nowadays. You count down to the second you'll see him again, as if you're only sustained by the promise of being under him again. Kissing him seems to have been some dam you were both waiting to see crumble and now it's like you can't breathe without touching each other. Or, at least, _you_ can't - without touching him. He maintains his grace no matter what you do.

You put him on his back and guide his cock inside you, working your hips, and you wonder if he's still thinking about finding the child even when you're doing this. Even when you're trying every trick you've vaguely heard of from the loose women at bankrupt pubs. You want to be useful to him. Maybe you won't ever find the child but you'll work up that look in his eyes where he's moments from falling apart and seems to have all the time in the world at his hands. Maybe you won't find the child but you'll get him to curse up a storm at the way you move.

 _Like you've been trained for it_ , he whispers roughly - half accusation as his hands grip your waist a little too tight. 

 

"You were expected home hours ago," Ma says as you close the door behind you. Mr. Graves had called you to an alley today to tell you that there's a British wizard under arrest who knew a child like the one you're trying to find. He told you that the child died and if you don't hurry up, the child in New York City will die, too. He told you as many details as he's managed to find from the wizard and you try to commit them to memory. He told you the disasters are emotional outbursts from the body being unable to contain magic. And, the whole time he'd been telling you the signs, you'd started to find a vague alignment in your own life. How you grew up. Before you could find the courage to voice your suspicions, he'd glanced at his watch and left with a rush - kissing the corner of your mouth. 

It's dark now and you'd thought about removing your belt even before entering. Ma is sitting at the dining table, back straight and eyes closed as her hands are clasped together tightly in her lap. 

"Where were you, Credence?" she asks, voice dripping with disappointment. You've tried countless times to not let it bother you, but your heart is dropping regardless. Your palms feel clammy and your skin feels too small for your bones. Tight and uncomfortable. 

"I was trying to find some books from the library on the First Salemers," you say, the lie falling flat even on your own ears. 

She sighs and gets up, looking at you with her hand held out. You slide your belt off and place it there. You put your hands out, palms up, and close your eyes.

"Ten," she says softly. You turn to your stories. 

You imagine you're in Europe or some farm somewhere and there are acres and acres of green grass in whatever direction you look. There are sweet animals roaming around and you're free. There aren't any fences - _one_ \- no fences, just - _two_ \- grass and animals and a little house. You wear clothes that don't fit you right and maybe they're the prince's, maybe the sleeves come to your knuckles because the prince likes them to - _three_. 

It's sunny today. It usually isn't. It's usually a little cloudy and you worry about your crops - _four_ \- or, something. Something terribly normal and mundane like that. And, that's all you worry about. It's sunny today so you're less worried than usual - _five_ \- and, you know magic. You know the type of magic the prince practices and you can also heal cuts with a swipe of your - _six_ \- hand. Sometimes the prince comes into the house looking weathered and bloody because he's been fighting wars for you, on your behalf - _seven_ \- saying he'll kill anyone who tries to take you. And, you smile to soothe his heart first and then you do magic to soothe his wounds. He says you're - _eight_ \- beautiful in his clothes. 

The prince isn't wounded today and it's sunny. The bright rays catch his eyes and he squints, handsome features twisted into a grin. It's acres of green grass, animals, a little house, and your prince - _nine_.

You let him pull you close and kiss you right on the mouth - _ten_ \- and you imagine the dull thud of a belt hitting the floor is the wind. You imagine your hands hurt because you're holding your prince so awfully tight.

 

Harry Shaw dies and it's all over the papers. Ma frowns at breakfast when Chastity brings it up - tells her to hush and glances briefly at you before looking away. Something is twisting in your stomach and it feels like a storm. Harry had shoved you yesterday morning as you'd been handing out leaflets, shiny black boots pressing the fallen papers into the wet road as he walked away laughing. You'd wanted to hurt Harry last night. You'd imagined how you'd lure him into an alley and you'd have a brick hidden behind your back. You'd throw it at his knees or his foot and you'd finally be the one walking away while he crumbles. You'd rip the word freak right out of his mouth. You'd thought up a thousand other scenarios but nothing as catastrophic as the reality. 

Modesty is chanting again and it feels like the walls are closing in on you. 

_Your momma, my momma, witches never cry._

You look up from your soup to see Ma's jaw clenched tight, knuckles white from the way she's gripping her spoon. 

_Your momma, my momma, witches gonna burn._

She looks up and right into your eyes. 

 

Mr. Graves grunts, biting his lips as he looks at you with heated, hooded eyes. He grabs the base of his cock and guides the head of it across your cheek, pressing into the folds of your lips and resting suggestively on your bottom lip. You give the intruding length the tiniest of licks, closing your lips to give the smallest of suction. 

 _You have to stop, my boy_.

 _I don't think I want to, Mr. Graves_.

 

 

+//+

**Author's Note:**

> uh im on twitter @ credanse and devastatingly lonely so,


End file.
